


Dragon Age Shortfics

by Ossobuco



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, Prompt Fic, short fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-11
Updated: 2016-08-11
Packaged: 2018-08-08 01:45:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7738636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ossobuco/pseuds/Ossobuco
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Various short/prompt/reblog fics written for the Dragon Age fandom. Chapters by year.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 2012

**“Ayurnamat”, prompted by maybethings**

“I want him back.”

Lyna’s boots sink into the muddy banks of the lake–the water is muddy, the roof of the hut is mud-plastered and brown and dingy, the sky is roiling gray mud, and the raindrops cling like mud to her face. Flemeth stands opposite, watching her from across the water with the keen gaze of the hawk and the wicked mouth of the wolf, seeming at once old woman and dragon, sharp-faced and sharp-eyed.

“A Grey Warden,” she pretends to marvel, “on these humble banks. Be so kind as to tell me whom the Grey has welcomed into their ranks.”

“You are no fool,” Lyna snaps. “Neither am I.”

“Aren’t you?” Flemeth crows, suddenly, delighted. “Oh, you must wish it were so. If you’d been less of one,  _he_ would be alive and you would not be on my poor, damp doorstep. Tell me _,_ child, what feels least foolish? Denying dear Morrigan’s ritual, or believing  _he_ ’d allow your life to be the one lost?”

Rage gnaws in her belly, and it’s all she can do to leave her sword in its sheath. As it is, her voice shakes. “I want him back,” she repeats, more softly.

Flemeth’s eyes are dark, hungry. “What have you to give me in return?”

Lyna stares back through the rain, unmoving. “Name your price.”

“Ten years you have tormented yourself, ten years believing you might somehow snatch him back from death. How do I know?” She chuckles, and Lyna shuts her mouth. “It is upon your face as words upon a page. But you will find no peace in this house, child. I cannot do this. There are few things I cannot do, and you are so clever as to ask for one of them.”

The rain stings Lyna’s eyes, suddenly. “Why play this game,” she demands, “why not tell me so right away?”

“You’ve wasted ten years of the life he gave you worrying over that which cannot be changed.” Flemeth’s grin is far colder than the mud in Lyna’s boots. “What’s five more minutes?”

A curtain of rain, so thick she cannot see even halfway across the lake–a roar of thunder and a flash of lightning, white in the thrall of mist.

When the downpour clears a moment later, Flemeth is gone. 

Lyna struggles to pull her boots out of the sludge, a few cold rivulets creeping down her back, and marches back into the trees.


	2. 2013

**“Nurse me”, prompted by hallaheart**

It’s a touch near the wound on his thigh that wakes Taliesin. He easily recognizes the bald silhouette backlit by the campfire, even though his vision is blurred and his head throbs; Lyna’s grip on his leg is firm, and when she touches the arrow that pierced his flesh–the work of darkspawn hands, it’s so crude that he’s almost embarrassed to have been shot with it–it burns like fire.

He realizes what she’s about to do a moment too late to protest. When she breaks the arrow in two, the shock sends agony blazing through his whole body, bright and blinding, and he shouts from the surprise of it as much as from the pain.

She jumps and lets out a shout of her own, even as she yanks the shaft from his leg and tosses it away as if in disgust. Drawing fast, full breaths, she kneels at his side and ties a bandage around the wound, so tight that he clenches his teeth to keep from swearing. There is fear in the sharpness of her eyes and the set of her jaw, though he knows she wouldn’t want him to see it.

“I thought you were still unconscious,” she says tersely as she wraps his thigh with a few more layers, more gently than the first (but not by much).

“I woke just before you pulled the arrow out.” He tries to sit up to see where, exactly, they are, but she forces him back down with one hand heavy on his shoulder.

“Be still,” she snaps. Her hand is covered with blood, but then, so is he, so he doesn’t mind that she smooths his hair back from his face. “How do you feel?”

He isn’t sure, but it doesn’t feel like his leg is bleeding too profusely, and his head is slowly clearing. The campfire lights the trunks of towering pines and a split boulder sheltering them from view. For the time being, they are safe. “Alive, at least." 

She does not look impressed, but the corners of her lips twitch. "I’ll make you some tea.”

*             *             *

**“Kill me”, prompted by hallaheart**

Lyna knew it was foolish to leave camp alone. She rarely did so, and never without good reason. Especially now, with two of the clan’s most promising hunters lost, the Keeper was adamant that no one take unnecessary risks–but the fear and grief of those who remained was almost too much to bear, and as the clan continued their northward journey, farther each day from where Tamlen and Taliesin had last left the hearth, hope had slowly bled from her heart. 

There was a game trail that wound south from camp, and she followed it through the dappled light of evening, red-gold sunbeams shifting between the pines. She was less than an hour out when a trio of darkspawn found her. They did not catch her by surprise; she’d noticed when the birds and frogs had gone quiet and had just enough time to ready her shield when they sprang from the undergrowth. They were thin and spry, attacking with crude daggers and gnarled hands and shrieking with cold, terrible voices, but they fell easily enough to her blade, one after another.

She ran the last one through, her sword buried nearly to the hilt in its ribcage, and as its body went slack, she realized that she knew its face–that the bridge of its nose and the set of its eyes were familiar to her, that she could just barely see the shadow of  _vallaslin_  beneath the bloated blue-black flesh.

It–he–collapsed slowly, a line of black blood running from between his mutilated lips. She caught him before he could fall, eased him to the ground, heedless of the blood coating her hands and arms–she knelt at his side, clutching his hand as his breaths rasped and hitched. She wouldn’t let him die alone, even if–

His hand tightened on hers. She jumped, daring to look at his face again, and found his eyes meeting hers, sharp with recognition, deep with sadness.

“Tali?” she choked.

His bloodstained lips twitched as if he were trying to speak, but no sound came. Then, his hand relaxed, and the light faded from his eyes.

*             *             *

**“Shoulders”, prompted by hallaheart**

It’s been three days since they’ve seen the sun or smelled the air fresh with rain. In the Deep Roads, there is nothing but damp rot and mildew and a darkness so thick that even their eyes can barely pierce it. They have come across a few darkspawn, mostly stragglers or small scouting groups, but nothing close to giving them pause. The dwarven legions have kept these tunnels relatively clear.

Even the dwarves would not face down what lies ahead, however. Taliesin had seemed almost reticent, she thought, when he described to her what the expedition would entail. Though he never showed concern at the thought of fighting broodmothers, she wonders now if he’s uneasy bringing her to them.

She would tell him that she isn’t afraid, that she has come of her own will and not simply out of love or loyalty, but the others are within hearing distance, and she’s certain he already knows.

He takes point, holding a torch mostly for the benefit of the human Wardens accompanying them. Privately, Lyna is glad for the light; it does little against the stale air and the tomb-like chill, but it lessens the bleakness of this awful place nonetheless.

Keeping time is difficult with no sun or sky, but she reckons they’ve been moving for the better part of a day. The tunnels here are cramped and crumbling, not like the vaulting passages near Orzammar or even the derelict thaigs. The once-smooth stone is cracked and treacherous beneath their feet, and the ceilings loom low over their heads, fringed with roots and cobwebs. It is not easy to trust the earth not to swallow them up on a whim, even though the dwarves at the last outpost assured them (and Sigrun and Oghren agreed) that the construction was sound. 

They come to a slight widening in the tunnel, debris from ancient quakes and collapses partially blocking the path ahead. It’s defensible, and there’s enough space to pitch tents and build a small fire. Taliesin glances back to her, and she orders the others to set camp before following him past the piles of rock. They walk for a few minutes in silence, broken only by their quiet footsteps and the sound of water flowing in the distance; he’s left the torch behind, and by the second bend they can just barely see each other, but even in the shadows she recognizes the slight crookedness at the corner of his lips.

“Here,” she says, touching his shoulder and then tugging the strap of his satchel. “Give me this.” The added weight is no great burden to her, but she thinks he breathes a little more freely without it.

She senses no darkspawn nearby, and they are quiet for some time, having little need to speak. They turn back once they’ve found fresh water and chosen the next day’s route; before they reach camp, he touches her cheek–cold leather and callused fingertips and skin that still smells a little of sandalwood and pine–and kisses her gently. The darkness doesn’t hide her smile when they pull apart.

*             *             *

**“People aren’t cargo, mate”, un-prompted reblog fic**

“The last Castillon saw of you, your ship was on fire. A blackened hull, sinking beneath the waves.” The man smirks cruelly. “He contracted you to deliver cargo. You chose to liberate it.”

Isabela’s eyes light with a sudden passion. “They weren’t cargo, Hayder, they were  _people_.”

Hawke marvels at her, just a bit, before Hayder comes forward, his armor clanking with each step–one, two, three. “You incurred a heavy debt to raise her up again, didn’t you.”

Before any of them can blink, Isabela’s knife is buried to the hilt in the chest of one of Hayder’s comrades, and the Chantry rings with the drawing of a dozen blades.  _Here we go again_ , thinks Hawke.

It’s not until a very long time later, on one of many nights they spend between the blankets of Hawke’s bed, that she thinks to ask what Hayder meant, what debt Isabela owed, and to whom.

“Oh,” Isabela says, and pulls away a few inches. “That.”

“Go on,” Hawke prompts, trying to catch Isabela’s eye and steal the glass of brandy from her hand at the same time. She takes a sip and offers it back; Isabela downs the whole thing and looks to the door.

“I found…  _someone_  who would raise my ship. Someone with enough power who was willing to strike a bargain.” Isabela takes Hawke’s hand and traces the lines on her palm. “Let’s just say it was a hard bargain to resist.”

“You mean… you made a deal with a demon.”

“I know.” Isabela kisses one finger, gently nips the next. “It was probably stupid. But I thought I could win–that once I had what I wanted, I could break the deal. Run. Sail somewhere she couldn’t follow.”

“Did you?”

“Well, she hasn’t found me yet.”

Isabela’s lips taste like brandy, and her hair smells like salt, and her skin is as hot as the sun as it blazes on the open sea. She’s still asleep when Hawke wakes the next morning; her steady breaths are regular and soothing like the rocking of a ship, but all that Hawke can think, watching her, is  _yet_.


	3. 2014

**Unprompted, for hallaheart**

Taliesin catches her staring, one evening while they’re out hunting–not that she had been staring long or particularly intently, but he had happened to turn at just the wrong time, and too quickly for her to hide it. Still, it hardly matters; he’s practically preening, a boyish energy in his steps as he crosses the uneven game trail, over twisting roots and onto stones that cross a rushing stream. His hair has gotten long, brown-hued in the slanting sun, and his chin is up, as proud and noble as any Dalish can be, and there’s a light in his eyes as he looks back at her.

Only then does Lyna manage to look away, her cheeks suddenly burning, under the pretense of watching a pair of nightjars take wing from across the stream. A moment later, there is a dismayed shout and a splash, and she turns to see him struggling to his feet, shin-deep in the cold water, his leathers dripping and much of his hair shimmering wet.

Laughter grips her–she can’t help it, her lips parting in an unbidden grin, her eyes squinting near-shut. Taliesin, water still babbling against his leather greaves, raises an eyebrow and crosses his arms, and Lyna has to turn around and clap a hand over her mouth until she can stand to look at him with steady breaths again.

Still smiling, she steps gingerly from stone to stone (to be fair, they’re slippery and covered in moss) and up the embankment to the mossy shore. He wades alongside, and she reaches to clasp his arm and pull him up with her.

*             *             *

**Rival journalists AU, prompted by hallaheart**

She’s out buying a hot dog on the street corner near her office when her phone vibrates in her jeans pocket. Hot dog stuffed unceremoniously between her teeth, she fumbles for it, swipes the screen. 

_15th and Madison. Park in the Diamond lot._

“Taliesin,” she grumbles as she wolfs down her lunch.

She parks next to a familiar dark gray sedan. Taliesin is in the driver’s seat, window rolled down halfway, training a telephoto lens on the expensive restaurant across the intersection, and very deliberately not looking her way, not for a fraction of a second. Through the restaurant window is Senator Bryland and his aide– _again_? her exposé on them was hardly a month old–and as far as Lyna can tell, they’re the only two reporters in sight. She pulls out her phone again, taps the keys with her thumb.

_Why?_

Out of the corner of her eye, she can see him reach down.

 _Thought you’d want to know_.

Egotistical jerk, she thinks, just before her phone buzzes again: S _till my story, though_.

 _Like hell it is_ , she responds, digging her camera out of her bag.

A few minutes pass. She takes a handful of photos as the senator and his aide toast and drink and begin to eat, and almost misses the next message:

_You can have it if you let me buy you dinner._

She rolls down her passenger side window and chucks a pen right at him; it bounces off his temple and he winces in surprise. Finally, they lock eyes, both of them grinning.


	4. 2015

**“Brontide”, prompted by fanfoolishness**

They had first kissed under the first winds of a storm, seated side-by-side in the cool grass, the warm air heavy with the smell of rain. Leliana had looked up through a break in the swirling clouds, and pointed to the stars shining against the blue-black sky. “Look there,” she said. “That constellation is famous in Orlais. They say it is a chevalier, who raises his shield against a fearsome lion.”

“The Dalish say that is Andruil raising her bow,” Lyna replied, “do you see? She aims at the red eye of a boar that chases Ghilan'nain.”

“I remember you told me about Andruil and Ghilan'nain,” Leliana said. “They were friends?”

“The stories say that Ghilan'nain was Andruil’s ‘chosen’. Some believe she was her disciple… others say they were lovers.” Lyna paused and glanced to Leliana beside her, and in the starlight she wore a rare half-smile, teeth gleaming white between the crooked part of her lips. Before either of them quite realized it, their noses were brushing, then their lips were pressed softly together, and Lyna’s hand was at the back of Leliana’s neck, fingers in her hair, pulling her close.

Some time later, beneath the tent canvas and the soothing patter of the rain, Leliana breathed over the galaxy of freckles on Lyna’s back and shoulders, tracing constellations for which she could imagine a hundred stories. She wanted to give voice to them at that moment, murmur them against the muscles coiled at the base of Lyna’s neck or write them with her fingers over her sturdy ribs and spine. 

Lyna’s body was relaxed and her breaths deep and even. Leliana felt at peace, much more than she had in a long time–to share this sheltered place with a friend, to allow them both a respite from what was to come. How easy it was, she thought, to forget the Blight and the war and all of the world that waited for them outside.

The only reminder was the low rumbling of distant thunder.


End file.
